Suppose
by sonofon
Summary: On the price of anonymity and failed relationships. And that kid Echizen's really just a jerk, isn't he?


This really was written a very long time ago for potcrackxechange for invidia92 at lj. It's been a while since I posted on ffnet, so I'll see how this goes!

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><p>There were many traits Atobe was innately born with, but of all of these qualities, his greatest was the power of nonchalance.<p>

"You," he simply said, "I know you." He said it neither eagerly not with disinterest. He enunciated each word carefully with no accidental stress on any of the syllables. It was a flat tone, but one that inspired hope in you anyway. He could carry a sentence like no one else.

It was perfect. It was nonchalance. It was Atobe Keigo at his very best.

Sengoku, attempting to comb his hair with his hands, looked up with his hands still wet and replied, "Yeah? Well, I don't know you," and proceeded to ignore Atobe as if he were nobody of significant importance.

Atobe elegantly gawked at him.

There are many topics open for discussion that are allowed, by the reins of good Society, to take part in the bathroom, but the question of whether one person knew another was one of these few exceptions, and history will prove to be enough of a justification for this. Even Atobe knew. He went and washed his hands of both microscopic germs and the insult to his ego.

But he was nowhere near done. "I could have sworn that the redhead I saw earlier was you."

"Yeah? It's a good thing you didn't, then. Might've angered the gods or something. You know, conjured some massive argument among the Olympians or effectively started another world war." Sengoku took two paper towels and finished some last-minute hair preparations. Atobe wondered how it was still possible for Sengoku to bring himself down to the level of tidying his hair in the _public_—and that was the key word here—washroom.

He shuddered at the mere thought and subconsciously touched his own silky and perfect hair to make sure it had not been contaminated by commoner-breathed air. Never mind the fact that they were at one of the top hotels in Tokyo Metropolitan and that his family was one of its primary investors. He had his standards to uphold, after all.

"You're here for the Annual Business Convention, too?" he said, and being the gentleman he was, waited for Sengoku.

Sengoku, already halfway out the door, rolled his eyes. "No," he said, as the two settled into the auditorium on the twenty-fifth floor, "actually, I'm here because of you. Didn't you know, Atobe? We're all desperately in love with you."

"While your superfluous flattery rather reminds me of a sycophant, I think I shall accept it all the same," he said drolly. "I never realized you had an aptitude for business, that's all. Nor was I ever aware of the fact that you'd gone into business in the first place. I don't remember ever seeing you in the business department at Tokyo University. That was what, six years ago?"

"Is this a thinly veiled, socially correct remark demanding to know why I'm not playing professional tennis? And why I am, instead, wearing a business suit and going to a convention with many other people wearing business suits where we discuss issues and pretend to be important?"

"It's of no importance to me _how_ you interpret it as long as you answer it. I haven't got all day, you know."

Sengoku sighed. "Yes. And no. I mean, yes because I wanted to, but no because I didn't."

"Afraid?" he said with a sneering tone.

"Don't act as if you know the story because you don't. Anyway, long story short, Banji told me that it'd be better if I didn't go for it. Too risky, he said, and after a while I did decide listen to him. And he was right. Tennis is risky business. Business is business."

"I never realized that you listened to orders from your elders." He touched a finger to his lips. "Or perhaps the rebel streak that I thought you had in you was misconstrued."

"We're not all rich like you, Atobe, if that's what you're trying to make me admit; I can't afford to take jeopardize my life and fall flat on my back without worrying about food and a roof over my head. Glory from tennis is wonderful, I know, but poverty and starvation doesn't make for much of a pretty picture either. All right. I'm not rich: as if you didn't know that already. Does that make you happy? I haven't even told you the rest of the damn story and you're already making me mad."

"I haven't even done anything," Atobe retorted and casually shrugged his shoulders. He looked over at the rest of the attendees; half of them looked asleep, or on the verge of doing so. "Really, you needn't be so hotheaded over something so _trivial_. Maybe you are rebellious, after all." Maybe the sky is green. Maybe pigs can jig.

"God damn it, that's precisely why you're making me mad: doing nothing. So wipe that smirk off your face and stop acting as if you've a right to do anything. I'm telling the story, aren't I? If I'm remembering correctly, you're the one who struck up a conversation in the first place. I could have gone through this without even noticing you." Later, Sengoku would be regretting that he ever said this, but for now, the words passed into the conversation unnoticed.

"I never asked you to start your story, if you'll recall. But if it'd make you feel better, go ahead—being a benevolent figure, I am considerate towards even the lowliest of all plebeians. You might have realized this by now." He shrugged again. "This convention is all for the papers anyway. I know the son of the convention organizer. It's all been pre-arranged. We might as well leave now if not for the photographers."

"Oh, yes, and photographers are your life." Sengoku had a fond memory of leaving restaurants and clubs with Atobe in tow with lined up cameras pointed at their faces; Atobe knew as well as he did that it was said in jest, perhaps even in irony.

"They do come rather in handy; but I suppose someone like you wouldn't understand. We of the privileged class were _born_ to be observed: some people detest it. Well, they're idiots for thinking so. It's an honor to be known by everyone all over the world."

"Unless it's because of a scandal."

"I have no scandal to my name," he persisted.

Atobe had always annoyed him for one reason or another; Sengoku grunted. "So. Like I was saying, before you had to interrupt and make me mad, Banji told me that I should opt for business instead, said I had a good head—most of the time, are his exact words—and I'd be doing more good for the world by creating an agency that represent tennis players. Because I have a captivating and bright personality—his words, not mine, though I agree with him completely, just so you know. So I worked and worked and here I am now. The schooling, the tests, the studying: all that finished three years ago. We churn out Japanese tennis players the way Johnny churns out idols."

"A wholly remarkable idea, of course."

"You needn't kill yourself over sounding sincere, you know; it makes actually you look compassionate."

"Can I help it if I was born to empathize with people?"

"The only person you empathize with is yourself—unless, of course, you count Echizen Ryoma."

"What about Echizen Ryoma?" Atobe narrowed his eyes.

"Ah-ha, so I was right; he _does_ have something on you. Oh, it's nothing, really. I just heard some rumors about you and him in America. You know, the mundane rumors that are bound to float across the Pacific. I think it began after you left. Or maybe there'll always be rumors about you. I'm not sure anymore."

"What rumors?"

"Look, _don't worry!_ It's nothing big. You saw a lot of him in America, didn't you? And you were there for a long time, weren't you? Just stuff how you two hung out like peas in a pod over in New York and Chicago and Miami and—"

"Where did you hear it from?"

"What does it matter?" Sengoku smiled. "It's a rumor. Unless, of course, it was true."

"Which it most definitely is _not_," Atobe insisted. "And you can tell whoever is informing you that he—or she—is entirely wrong."

Sengoku leaned forward on his palms. "You know, I've sometimes wondered why you don't return to America. What's left for you here, anyway? What does Japan have for you that America doesn't? You've been living there for the past five years and you've been here for the past six months. Why return now all of a sudden? Did something happen between you and him? Unfinished business?" He said the last part with more than slight contempt on his lips; Atobe noticed it.

"I wonder if you realize how much you sound like a stalker right now."

"I wonder if you realize how much of what I'm saying is true."

"I wonder if you wonder," Atobe spat back. "I don't mind admirers. I do put a line at stalkers."

"Why don't you tell me? Why not? You said yourself that there's nothing for you here. At this convention, at least. Why can't it apply to Japan?"

"I came back because of you," Atobe simply said.

Sengoku stared. "If you said that a bit more empathically," he laughed, "I might actually believe it."

"If I were you, I would stop laughing," he replied. Grown men fled into the woods when they heard Atobe said this, because it meant that the situation had ceased to be pretty. And Sengoku was laughing! It was an inconceivable idea.

"Sometimes, I wonder," Sengoku continued on, "did you steal some government funds? Is that why you left America? Or did you sleep with somebody's wife? An entrepreneur's lonely, pretty, young wife. But I like to believe that you killed a man. Perhaps it's the romantic in me. I always was. Still am, for that matter, in case you're interested."

"That is the single most disturbing thing I've heard you say all day today, and you're said some disturbing things today. This isn't counting what was said before."

"So, am I right?"

"Definitely _not_. I did not steal government funds. I did not sleep with anybody's wife. And I most definitely did _not_ kill a man. I am Atobe Keigo; I don't bend the law: the law bends to _me_."

"Then you slept with somebody's husband."

If the axiom 'looks that kill' were true, then Sengoku would be dead ten times over right now. Atobe flung a hand through his hair and would not give him the satisfaction of answering his question, which, in his eyes would be equivalent to abasing himself to Sengoku's level; which, in a way, he had to admit, he had already done. Now _and_ before, he thought, remembering a time when they had sought after one another and it had seemed right. It was very much different now. But he chose not to think of it.

Sengoku pouted. "Why are you here then? I've exhausted all the possibilities and I'm still not right. I wish we could use tennis to settle this."

"I told you. I came back because of you. And tennis wouldn't solve anything. I always beat you. And not just in tennis," he said sharply.

And Sengoku was laughing again! "If I were a woman, maybe I'd believe that right about now. I take that back: I'd believe you either way. You always did have a way with words."

"If you were a woman, I'd send for security to drag you out of this hotel this _instant_." He did not bother to disguise his tone, which veered dangerously on uninhibited anger.

"Oh, so is that why I haven't been thrown out? Because I'm a man? I can fight back your wimpy security guards or something? Well, I'm ready. I've always been ready."

"I have a history with you, one that's none too glamorous or pretty, but it'd get into the news. Things about past relationships and feuds even though it wouldn't be anywhere near true."

"You know what I think?" said Sengoku. "I think that if I were a woman, and I weren't around to say anything—because, believe me, I'd have something to say about it—Echizen Ryoma got off easy, you know—I would be in love with you."

"I don't mind admirers. Usually I don't discriminate between them. But _that_. That I believe I will draw a line at. For all I care, unwelcome solicitors could go off and drown in some barren wasteland."

"You don't believe me," he sulked.

"I honestly don't see how I could. Are you still drunk?"

"I don't go near an inch of that stuff anymore," proclaimed Sengoku. He paused before adding: "Well, then, suppose I decide to kiss you just to prove everything between us. Just to prove that everything before was for real and that your going to America and coming back never really happened—a suppressed memory, you know. Suppose we wipe that messy blot. Suppose you decide to come to your senses. Forget Echizen Ryoma. Forget the kid."

"Suppose you decide to realize that there are cameras all around here and that any wrong move will result with us on the front pages of all the tabloid magazines in all of Japan. Can your little business take that?"

"_I'm_ not afraid, if that's what you're trying to imply. Why, are you? Are you honestly scared of the tabloids? Scared that Echizen Ryoma's going to see it? Have you lost your wits over the past five years? Have you really changed _that_ much? Because the way I see it, you're not Atobe Keigo anymore. Keigo, maybe, but not Atobe."

"That brat doesn't read tabloids, and I'm still Atobe Keigo, damn you," he shot back.

"Ah," smiled Sengoku, "that's more like you. Okay, so you're not gone completely. Which is, you know, good; in your own special way, arrogance defines you." He paused. "As for Echizen, well, I bet he doesn't read anything that hasn't anything to do with tennis. But, see, my girlfriend reads tabloids. And she's going to read about us. And chances are, ten to one, that she'll stay with me for an extra week because of that. Girls are funny. Honestly, it's a whole different sex."

"You have a girlfriend," Atobe repeated.

"Oh, yes, I do. We've been together for five days." Sengoku smiled again. "Are you surprised?"

"Which is a lifetime, I'm _sure_."

"Actually, it was a sort of dare between us; you know, to see how long we could keep it going. I said four days, she said two weeks. I'm losing. She doesn't know about you yet. I never told her about us. If I did, she'd probably be on her knees asking me to marry her the moment I told her. Girls really are funny. But don't worry; she only knows that you're the very definition of a quickie marriage and divorce. You know, the whole marry and divorce, marry and divorce, marry and divorce thing. Is it like a routine by now?"

"I'd watch it if I were you. You're not the same you from before either. And you don't have a girlfriend—you—you're making it all up. That's low of you, I may have questioned your character once before, but this—_this_ is outrageous. In a lowly attempt to make me mad—jealous—"

"So you're jealous?" Sengoku wryly grinned and leaned forward.

"Fuck you, Sengoku."

"I love you, too, Atobe," replied Sengoku; and smiled. "Oh, I'm so lucky!"

"Why the hell are you telling me all of this anyway?" he said. He was thinking be calm, meditate, and then _I'm going to kill this guy if it's the last thing I do_, before the anger resided and he sighed a resolute sigh. "When I used to live with—when I used to know you, you never said anything. Suppose you tell me why I'm suddenly so privy to your private life, which I thought I knew, when really I didn't."

"Suppose I was in love with you. I mean, really, really in love with you." And somehow, Sengoku did not seem to be joking. "Suppose I was restraining myself from serenading you in front of all these strangers right this moment. Suppose I fell in love with you for no particular reason other than the fact that you're you and I'm me, and suppose, after all this time, I'm still in love with you. Even after all that happened.

"Forget what I said before. Forget what I say now. We said an awful lot, didn't we? I thought about it a lot, you know; I was thinking that I had talked about you and you had talked about me," he shook his head, "when maybe, well, we should have talked about each other."

For a moment, Atobe was silent, as if in contemplation. Then he responded: "Suppose you say something coherent for once in your life. Every time I see you—all the time I knew you—it's the same incoherent rubbish, only rearranged; or repeating the same undignified words over and over again—suppose, wonder, realize—well, suppose just that." And he folded his arms across his chest and threw a triumphant glance at him.

"I am speaking coherently, don't you see?—no, wait, you never saw. Well, suppose I've always been in love with you even though you're so arrogant that you make Narcissus look tame and you're rich enough to be two or three or four of him. Suppose your money doesn't matter much to me. And that Echizen Ryoma really is just a brat; and me? I can always dump my girlfriend to win back my losses."

"Funny how all of this comes out now," he scoffed. "Wait a moment while I dial for security."

"Why not? Is it because I'm not the Echizen kid? Do you have a thing for younger men? Do you know what I've felt for you all this time? Do you realize that I've been looking forward to this convention for the past four months because I knew you were going to be here? Call me crazy, but it's true."

"You're crazy. You're crazy and dangerous, and any moment now, you will jump out of that seat and kill everyone at this convention because you have gone mad and insane and therefore considered a liability to innocent bystanders. You were crazy when I knew you, before I met you, and even more so now."

"I didn't actually mean it like that!"

"Then I hope you didn't mean the rest of your words either. Suppose I don't want you to be in love with me anymore: you had your chance and you lost it; suppose I consider our past liaisons effectively _severed_, for reasons you are well aware of. Suppose you just shut up for once in your life because your damn jokes aren't going to work on me anymore." He hastily added: "Not that they ever did in the first place."

"How is this a joke? Have I not been sincere enough?" Sengoku slapped his forehead. "Was it because I wasn't on my knees or something? Oh, God, Atobe—you—"

"Maybe the fact that you've been spouting gibberish all day today and haven't shown anything for it. The first time I see you in five years and this is what I get?"

"Six years, five months, and twenty-three days, actually."

"You _are_ crazy."

"So you want evidence?"

"I don't care how you interpret it, just answer it. I'm running late for my manicurist."

"That flippancy is sort of what makes me really hate you," said Sengoku, and then kissed him right then and there in the middle of the conference, where twenty reporters caught the moment and immediately sent it to the online community for intensive debate and speculation over the meaning of this kiss and its further implications; and the hype over it all led to next day's highest-selling publication of Spy Magazine in its short ten-year history. And somewhere, Echizen Ryoma said, "Good riddance," and chucked the magazine away.


End file.
